


between needing and wanting

by stonedlennon



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1960, 1960s, Hamburg Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 11:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9547562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedlennon/pseuds/stonedlennon
Summary: John knows he can't forget what happened with Paul. Instead, he finds Stuart. August, 1960.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paperbackwriterfromnowhere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperbackwriterfromnowhere/gifts).



> written as a prompt challenge by the lovely and beautiful @andthemoondogs on tumblr! the idea was to write a oneshot in half an hour using a randomly generated sentence as inspiration. of course, me being me, i took about an hour and used the sentence as the basis for the whole fic, but whatever works right

The sound of laughter drifted up from the street below, making him feel very alone in this new town.

John turned slowly in place as he looked at the canvasses that littered the room. They were everywhere, in far greater numbers than in Gambier Terrace: enormous creations of wood and stretched fabric, taut despite the weight of the oil paint, the air heady with turpentine and cigarette smoke. Colours burst and bubbled around him, as if he were on a kaleidoscopic fairground ride; as the late summer sunlight poured into Stuart’s bedroom, it refracted through a glass vase of dried flowers that Astrid had put on the windowsill.

Hamburg in the afternoon was as cheerful as a barmaid before a big night: people swung through the streets on their way home, in good spirits because of the unseasonably hot weather, thirsting for pints of peat-dark lager, maybe a plate of brown bread and pickles. The imminent wave of the evening’s debauchery seemed far away, as if it were happening another city over, and not right beneath their feet like a dank warren that ran black with pornography and predulin.

A familiar swell of melancholy made him sink down on the neat bed. John pulled out a cigarette and lit it with Stuart’s lighter on the bedside table. He shifted back to lean against the wall, his legs open and dangling over the side of the bed, and gazed at the paintings.

A burble of conversation from downstairs coincided with the front door opening. John’s ears pricked. A shout of laughter from the street below heralded a series of thumps on the stairs. The door swung open to reveal Paul, breathless and flushed, looking very grown up in his new leather jacket.

“Knew I’d find ye here,” he said cheerfully, closing the door behind him.

John, who was very adept at running to ground when he was in a mood, scowled. “How?”

“You’re sulking,” Paul pointed out. “And Stu’s the only one who lets ye get away with it.” He started to walk around the room to look at the paintings. When he’d done a single lap, seemingly unimpressed, he came over to sit on the bed beside John.

“Light me one, then.”

“What am I, made of money?” But John lit a cigarette with the end of his old one and passed it over. Paul gave him a flirtatious smile and said, “Thanks, love.”

“You’re worse than Cyn,” John griped.

“Why, because the Irish like endearments?” Paul snorted. “If that makes me a bird…”

Christ, he wasn’t getting into this circular argument again. Next to Pete, everyone went batty over Paul’s charming looks and his lipid eyes. When he came up to the microphone and glanced through the subtropical gloom of the Cavern, a coy smile filtering through his solemn, showman expression, the girls sighed as one. Well, the girls being Dot and Cyn. Everyone else was too fuckin’ stupid to see they were going to be the next big thing.

John ignored Paul in favour of finishing his cigarette. They listened as the clamour in the street below increased, the ceaseless tide of pedestrians, teenagers laughing on their way to poetry readings or dances, the rattle of a passing tram. Sea birds cried sadly in the breeze.

Paul nudged his side. They were sitting close enough that their shoulders were flush together, making the leather squeak. “What’re ye really doing here, Johnny?” he asked quietly. “Is everything alright?”

It was that ruddy tone of voice. The same voice that had attempted to win Mimi around with his enunciation and good manners. The subtle swing of a council house upbringing hiding behind Mary McCartney’s insistence upon a good education. John felt the weight of Paul’s gaze on his profile. His chest lurched painfully.

“Yeah,” he replied, going for gruff but managing to sound fuckin’ depressed. “M’fine, Paul. Just bloody tired.”

“Didn’t realize we’d be up ‘til all hours.” Paul tried to inject some cheer into his voice, but it fell flat. He sucked on his cigarette, the end blooming orange in John’s peripheral vision. “Reckon we’ll try some of those funny pills tonight? What with double-headlining, and all.”

John tipped his head sideways to watch Paul smoke. He did so with a gentle tilt of his wrist, his pink lips pursing as he exhaled. Images of Forthlin swam dangerously into view: Paul’s mouth, damp and warm, when he pulled away from John; the helpless sound in the back of his throat when he rocked down; John, driven mad by his own urgency, unable to conceive of anything except steadying Paul’s hips as they rolled against his. Only afterwards did he remember murmuring Paul’s name over and over, as if it were the sweetest thing that his tongue had ever tasted.

“D’ye wanna go out with me tonight?” John jerked away to stub his cigarette out in Stuart’s ashtray. “After the show, like.”

“’Course,” Paul answered after a pause. When John leaned back, they looked steadily at each other. This close, Paul looked far younger than the leathers implied: his too-short fringe sat high on his forehead, and the freckles he’d hated so much were finally fading after so many subterranean nights. His cigarette hovered by his head. After another beat, he twisted his wrist inwards to take a short drag.

“Just us,” John elaborated, feeling his words tremor. “No one else.”

“Just you and me.” A slow smile curled across Paul’s mouth. Smoke trailed from between his lips when he asked, “Any reason?”

The desire to kiss him came like a spike of adrenaline. John swallowed. “No.” Then, when Paul finished his cigarette, John blinked and said, “Well.”

“Like water from a rock,” Paul teased. “The wordsmith Lennon has officially left the building.”

A wave of relief swept through him. John laughed shortly, rolling his head back to look at the ceiling. “Yeah, yeah,” he scoffed. “Alright. Christ, the boy gets me on the backfoot _one time_ and he reckon he’s got the keys to the bloody kingdom.”

“Haven’t I?” Paul sounded simultaneously quick and cautious, tacking on a laugh in case John turned on him like quicksilver. A tangled memory of Paul sitting at the end of his bed came to him unbidden: _John,_ he’d started, and later, _Have ye ever,_ and then, with bruised lips, _Oh God._

Something hot and panicked rose in his throat. John opened his mouth to make a confused joke about lads in knickers or dropping them for any old bloke, before the door opened again and Stuart came into the room. He looked up from the tea tray with a surprised quirk of his eyebrows, his fey looks emphasised by one of Astrid’s tight black turtlenecks.

“Oh,” he said, glancing between them. John thought his eyes lingered cautiously on Paul. “Didn’t know y’were here.”

“Astrid said she’d drive us tonight,” Paul replied coolly. The pressure against John’s shoulder increased minutely. John licked his bottom lip and pretended to stare at his boots. “Thought I’d pop by. Not a problem, is it, mate?”

“No,” Stuart replied after a beat. He came and put the tea tray down on a table, pushing aside jam jars of grey water filled with paintbrushes. Conspicuously, there were only two mugs of tea. Stuart glanced at John and said, “Sorry, thought we were alone. D’ye want, uh –”

Usually his caution was endearing to John, who burned for affection with a voracity that bordered on the desperate. But him standing there, interrupting Paul’s _Paulness,_ in those affectingly tight trousers and those slender-boned wrists, suddenly seemed a horrid counterpoint. Paul was curt where Stu was tentative; brash where he was gentle; and John wasn’t in the mood to think about how they made up two distinct halves of his own self.

Just as Paul coyly said, “Yeah, I’d love a cuppa, ta,” John struggled off the bed. Both Stu and Paul looked at him in surprise. Running a hand through his carefully made-up hair, John stared out the window.

“M’gonna wait downstairs,” he muttered.

“I brought you tea,” Stuart said, wounded.

“You brought _us_ tea,” Paul corrected.

“Drink each other’s fuckin’ tea!” John burst. “I’m fuckin’ going.”

He yanked open the door and started clattering down the stairs. The Kirchherr house was a tall, three-floored affair, with Stuart occupying the cramped attic. John was strongly reminded of descending into the circles of hell or some other philosophical nonsense of Klaus’. As he passed landing after landing, he became aware of a set of footsteps thumping along behind him. With his heartbeat pounding in his ears, John finally reached the ground floor and made to rush past the kitchen. Astrid’s mother was hovering by the stove.

Drawn like a magnet, John abruptly rushed to embrace her. A huff of laughter accompanied the tightness of his grip. Her bosom swelled beneath his cheek, the floral apron smelling of her husband’s cigar smoke and something metallic, like meat.

“Mein kleiner junge,” she said fondly, stroking the hair back from John’s forehead. “Warum gehst du so bald?”

“I don’t understand what you’re sayin’,” John mumbled. Unhappiness, strong and sour, made him pull away to stare at her. “I’ll see ye,” he promised. “Tomorrow.”

As she said, “Sei ein guter junge,” Paul came rushing into the kitchen. “John?”

“Fuck off, Paul.” Giving her a last hug, John forced himself to leave. He shoved past Paul and into the hallway. Stuart appeared at the top of the stairs to frown at him in worry.

“John?” he asked gently. “Where are y’going?”

“What about the show?” Paul demanded.

“Sod the show,” John bit out. He yanked open the front door and a suffocating swell of ambient noise made him set his jaw. The need for a cigarette felt like a physical urge. Shrugging off the hand that landed on his shoulder, John leaned against the doorframe. Girls’ laughter faded into the cacophony of traffic.

He couldn’t look at Paul; couldn’t bear to see the questions that bubbled in those big eyes. John sucked in a lungful of warm summer air. Turning his head to the side, he managed to mutter, “See ye tonight.” Then he went out into the city, alone.

**Author's Note:**

> find me over @stonedlennon on tumblr! please do kudos comment etc. thank you for reading!


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